Masha'Allah.
When Darim had been born, Malik had whispered, "Masha'Allah," while holding the boy for the first time. It was suppose to keep the Evil Eye at bay. Only God knows Malik didn't need to be giving anything any more of an evil eye than he already did, especially a baby. So Malik had said, "Masha'Allah," and all had been well.
That had been about a year ago.
Now Darim is a feisty-minded toddler, playful and spirited. Nothing escapes his inquisitive plundering, or his roving large and amber eyes. It's still early afternoon, but Darim refuses to nap. Malik holds him by the middle while he prances on tiny toes across the sturdy leather belt situated on Malik's stomach; a mindless bit of wiggling done at pudgy knees and waist. In one hand, Darim is flailing the armless left sleeve of the dai robe, occasionally pushing it into his mouth to taste the Eastern fabric like it's honey.
"You like to dance, don't you?" Malik asks, a smile in his voice.
Darim sputters his lips, squeals in excitement, and then babbles incoherently in tones that sound something akin to Arabic. Amusement touches the corners of Malik's lips, and he holds the boy who continues to pitter-patter on his belt to the silent sound of a darbuka. Though there isn't much strength in Darim yet, there is a lot of soul and character, Malik knows. A fine heir. The thought almost makes Malik pine for his own son.
Malik supposes that can wait.
For a little while, the baby boy is Malik's charge, and the dark-eyed man doesn't seem to mind all that much. Altaïr, in his Grand Mastery, has been called away, leaving Malik to babysit for an hour or two. At first, Malik had struggled with ideas which would keep the boy entertained, but he then found that Darim could very well entertain himself.
Like now. Darim is still flopping the empty sleeve through the air and two-stepping over the grooves on the leather. If something catches the boy's eye, he stops to regard it quietly for a moment: a shine of light, Malik's nose, the threads on Malik's white shirt, and then he either raspberries his lips or laughs, returning afterward to his previous jig. Malik is sure that he should not find this bit of infancy amusing, but he does anyway. Darim looks like a child version of Altaïr, and it's ten times more comical to picture Altaïr gyrating as a baby on his stomach.
Finally, Darim seems to grow tired of doing the tango, and he crumples down on the belt in a sit, sleeve still readily in hand. Malik raises himself up on the pillows enough that Darim won't tumble away from the slant, but his strong grip never leaves the baby's waist.
"Tired already?" asks Malik, and Darim answers him with a wide yawn. Malik smiles.
Overhead, a shadow melts through the hole in the bureau lattice, silhouetting both Malik and Darim. Slowly, Malik tips his head back to look (Darim mimics this), already having half a mind of who is standing there. He's right: it's Altaïr looming quietly with dark Grand Master robes. In one swift movement, Altaïr descends and lands with a thwump of booted feet.
To begin with, Darim is startled by the guest, stares open mouthed, but then the boy seems to recognize the deep colors of the figure, or perhaps the presence altogether. Squealing happily, Darim raises his arms and curls his fingers, gibbering out, "Ba! Ba!"
"He's keeping you busy, I see," says Altaïr, and Malik agrees with a smiled, "Yes."
Altaïr settles himself down on the pillows beside Malik, reaching up afterward to take the squirming Darim. A pump or two later and Altaïr is raising and lowering Darim toward his face while making rhetorical inquiries of the boy's day. Darim, of course, giggles and shrieks depending on the gradient of the lift, but soon Altaïr nestles the boy down beside himself. This does not appear to be an acceptable option for Darim, who, wrinkling his face sourly, struggles to scale his father's ribs in order to huddle instead on the man's chest. Not wanting a tantrum, Altaïr obliges.
"It has been a while since you've been in Jerusalem, hasn't it?" Altaïr points out.
Malik rolls his head back into the pillows and gazes up at the lattice of the ceiling. "Yes," he breathes quietly. "It has."
Altaïr smirks below his hood and only cuts a glance at Malik with his eyes. "Do you want to be here again?"
Some minutes of silence pass. Malik looks contemplative, thoughtful. The bureau had been a part of him, a part of his essence, in a sense. He lived and breathed the smell of ink and parchment, the dust of novices coming and going, of smell of food drifting through the lattice in the morning when the city had been just waking. In his own way, Malik misses it, like missing a pet, or a toy, or… Kadar, he thinks. He had moved on from that long ago, though, so he assumes it is time to move on now from the life of an Assassin cartographer in a bureau. Masha'Allah. God wills it. There is a better purpose for him now, and he's not ungrateful.
"No," Malik finally answers softly. "I am happy where I am."
When Malik looks over, Darim is asleep with a thumb in his mouth. Altaïr is smiling at him fully, enough to flash teeth, and there is a hand extended between the two of them. Slowly, Malik clasps it, grip firm. "I'm glad, Brother," says Altaïr.
Releasing his hand's hold, Malik leans over to tuck some hair behind Darim's ear. He's close enough that he doesn't even have to smile much for Altaïr to know what the smile says. Barely a curl of the corner of his lips, and it says a great many things. "As am I."